Fables and the Emergent Dusk
by Zaedah
Summary: The cycle of war begins anew with each traitorous dawn, which has made me a greater ally to dusk. Much POV
1. Chapter 1

**Fables and the Emergent Dusk**

Robin has no head for planning. The patience, timing and thoroughness required of the plotting mind are quite unfamiliar qualities to my master. This flaw is as visible as an approaching leper; a problem easier to sidestep than to cure. Unfortunately, like leprosy, his flaw is contagious. I've tried and failed to wash off the lingering odor of his disasters. Robin revels in his mess as a swine in mud. And he splashes me every time. In all my fifteen years of life, I have already known far more aggravation than is likely healthy.

Robin's half-plans are already becoming legend for their catastrophic failings, though neither of us is old enough to achieve such fabled status. The other lads snicker when Robin gets caught, not that eliciting such a response troubles my master. In truth, the village boys seem embroiled in jealousy at Robin's liberties. The privilege of money, they say and look to me for agreement. I'm one of them, after all; a lowly worker sweeping up the careless dust of my superior.

Never has one caused so much havoc and then been so entirely forgiven. The world and all its harshness becomes a mythical storyland at Robin's whim. It is that grin of his; the one which, on my own face, appears acutely idiotic. Truly, that angelic façade is a weapon of the devil's design. Mind you, I'm quick to reap the benefits of Robin's perception of freedom's boundlessness. Yet I shall surely groan every second of each undertaking. One of us must present reluctance before diving into mayhem. Certainly, we are both too swiftly approaching adulthood to venture backwards into childish deeds. And yet…

It is in the sincerest show of friendship that I aid in carrying out his schemes, despite the knowledge that he rarely allots a proper thought to the likely outcome. And no consideration whatsoever for the consequences. Were I consulted during the planning phase, I would gladly point out the cracks in the foundation. Being the wiser of us, I would plainly direct his attention to the weak spots that will later bring his house crumbling. But the builder must build, my uncle always said. Of course, he also preferred Robin over me. It's that cursed grin again.

Over the last few weeks, Robin has given disturbing effort to appearing imbecilic. Not a challenging leap from my perspective. Figures are his vexation. While he possesses a passable understanding of tallies, the activity is greeted with all the enthusiasm of an hourly bath. Conquering sums is a task of focus and time, but the gradual process of solving is unacceptable to the wandering mind. Gratification must come on swift heels to keep his interest. Thus Robin declared that he would strive for incompetence, thereby being excused from all mathematical endeavors. We nearly fell into the gaping holes in that strategy. I could have told the builder of the splits in the mortar, really. Surely I would have. But any objections are customarily met with all the deafness of rocks; the sort which currently serve as the contents of his head. My master believes in his own infallibility. I believe he is delusional. As if years of proof weren't enough, the current plan naturally achieves the opposite effect, manifest in the additional hours of numerical study being forced upon us both. Yes, I reap the benefits and the punishments equally. And since the order came from his father, it will be obeyed with no further escape attempts. Robin's devastated pout holds still my gloating tongue. No friend rubs salt on wounds, even the preventable ones.

The noble Earl of Huntingdon has such trust that his son will become a leader of men. No amount of exasperating lectures can deter the elder Locksley from this conviction. But who would follow a trail blazed by immaturity? Robin sets fire to such trails and we who march behind, our loyalty dragging ever after, too often get singed. Mind you, the path he forges provides interesting, even stimulating, scenery. I hardly know a soul who can better coax adventure from tedium. Still, I'm running out of excuses and I am not at all certain when that became my job.

Robin has a job too. But he rebels against every instinct to perform as his station insists. Conformity, my entire aim in life, Robin cites as a ship sinking to the ocean floor of boredom. Even this morning, as the tally lessons wore on, Robin drew up plans to strangle the teacher with his own riding whip. Half a plan, of course, as the whip tended to remain in old Lord Gooden's skeletal grip while he paced. A warning no doubt. As I crushed the paper he'd handed me, I understood yet again how little chance Robin has of approaching the footstool of respectability. A leader of men indeed. If the Earl wants a leader, he might look to one blessed with more common sense. Not that I would brag, but clearly if there is a cloth from which leaders are cut, I feel daring enough to claim a corner of the fabric.

Then there are the games of old that become as new to the master each day. Namely tormenting others with a vigor that should be sold in casks to the elderly. Or better still, applied to his studies. Truly, how many bits of wood can one boy throw at the backs of adults before he wearies of the prank? This is yet another rung on his ladder of legend, something the townsfolk muse over as if ridiculousness were a virtue. The poor girl, Marian, will grow up quite jaded for Robin's joyful torture. By some rare combination of toughness, poise and possibly saintliness, Marian endures the jests, even grants smart return to the insults and tumblings. A natural born boy, that girl. I can see her becoming a demure court flower as readily as I see Robin emerging as a scholarly nobleman. If there was a measure of maturity and the rate at which it should be achieved, Robin would be deemed too slow to rule in his father's stead. He holds onto youth as though the grip only can stave off the prying attempts of responsibility. I've seen clinging like this before, only the hand belonged to an infant.

But the playing stops the moment the weapons instructor rides onto the estate. I swear Robin can hear his distinct, uneven hoof beats of his near-lame from the edge of the village. With the swiftness of a passing storm, Robin can dredge up a convenient capacity for adult attentiveness. The teacher is of foreign blood, a matter which displeases the old Earl's pride-laden sensibilities. But the skill of the man, coupled with the studiousness he brings out in Robin, prevents his father from seeking a home-grown teacher. I will admit to dismay at the weekly activities the teacher devises. I'd prefer useful skills, such as house upkeep or land maintenance. When shall I need to draw a sword upon another? England's air is heavy with fragrant peace and we breathe not contempt breezes from other lands. Fighting each other in the fields is a pastime for the local children who dream of distant glory. Only the affairs of court have Robin and I to look forward to.

And yet we lunge, thrust and parry like warriors, no longer playing at was as our younger selves had. When the childish wooden implements were traded in, gentleness went with them. To be sure, I am equally intent on the task as Master Robin, but only because my limbs have known few mercies when he is engaged in the exercise. Distraction is his breath and yet in the course of weapons training, the singular concern is the plotting of his opponent's demise. Which means me. Here, the half-plans are made whole. Here, the pranks have no home. The instructor talks of heroes and deeds of valor and Robin hears every syllable as though they were a message from God. Sometimes such a look crosses his face when he has me at a disadvantage, I must wonder if he seeks a way out through weaponry. And I admit I am moved to anger.

There is every advantage in this life; the future earldom, the scope of vast lands and the rule of a village. Involvement in court, while not ideal, at least ensures he helps make rules rather than be subjected to them. Noble prospects await him and yet they are regarded as a burden. As if he has no concept of the alternative. Being Robin's friend makes me no less his servant. And he does not recognize what that means for my limited options. Should he choose, I would be his manservant for the fullness of days. Should he grant freedom, I would still follow. What else do I know? What more can a servant expect in a land where lack of birthright is insurmountable? For Robin to hold contempt for what should be greeted as an honor angers me. I tell him sometimes to be grateful for all his father will give him. But right now, he only sees what he cannot behold; the rest of the world.

Perhaps he sees some faceless enemy when I, his dearest friend, strike at him. Swords in hand, we eagerly forget our numbers and vaguely remember to avoid bloodletting. This day, he has countered my attack by forcing my sword to the left, releasing his right hand from his own sword to reach for my throat. A quick jab to my neck causes my legs to stumble back and his sword, returned firmly to both hands, finds its way to the vulnerable spot beneath my chin.

Yet while his focus is honed on victory, I sense an approaching defeat. Because the nature of fables is to gain lessons through mistakes. The air in England changes around us as metal catches the orange rays of a falling sun. It is the emergent dusk of our fading childhood and suddenly I worry we are maturing too quickly. We are neither ready nor willing to step into the dark of adulthood. And Robin cannot take his fabled antics with him into maturity. While an end to childish practices has long been craved, something within me also seeks to dissuade him from whatever new goal is burgeoning in his mind, the one that arrived bundled with sword and bow.

Because myths are easily forgotten. Heroes die. And I've never met a legend I admired.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sincerely dedicated to Glorious Clio and Denouement Intrusion for their kind readership and the most humbling reviews. Really, you two do wonders for a girl's habitual self-doubt!  
_

**Fables and the Emergent Dusk**

**Chapter Two**

Robin's target practice has become incompatible with my stomach.

As boys, we'd tromp through the woods with toy bows and arrows in hand. Fortunately, our survival did not depend on our hunting skills. We were far too noisy. Rarely was spotted a creature at which to shoot and typically we brought an equal number of arrows out as we carried in. I admit I was rather heavy of foot and Robin could not resist pushing his faithful servant down every sloping hill. Truly, that trick only grew tiresome for one of us. Never did we return home clean. And never with food.

Food is still a point of contention in his bow training. Now we do not venture into the forest and pretend to seek robbers. Age has seen to a mature progression of activities. Rather, he shoots from a still, standing position at a post. A post topped with fruit. This change in technique did not bother me at first. His aim was such that he might strike the post in the attempt, but the food was blessedly spared. Therefore, whatever large and succulent melon he'd chosen would invariably sate our appetites later. But at nearly sixteen, Master Robin can mortally wound an apple from 50 paces. I'm still trying to hit the post. Many a grassy lump has suffered for my aim. While he finds vast opportunity for mockery, at least one of us is not wasting provisions. 'We'll be hungry one day,' I tell him, 'and long for that lemon you've gutted.' Of course, the rich man's son thinks this impossible. Plenty is his lot in life.

In the same vein of impossibilities was the Earl's announcement that war sits precariously upon our horizon. Although 'announcement' is possibly too strong a word. I overheard him divulge court murmurings to our weapons instructor. Well, 'overheard' is perhaps approaching untrue. I might have hidden under a window and eavesdropped.

Regardless, I listened as Robin's father relayed the worst of all lies; the rumors of nobility. In the past, such retellings have made me almost proud to bear no noble blood. A myth may be crafted about someone else for the sheer spite of it. It hardly requires the flexing of the smallest muscle to cause ostracism, rarely for any other gain than that of entertainment. I am not cured of the occasional white lie, but no one has ever been ruined by the deeds of my imagination.

The newest aristocratic whisperings involve our worthy King and his interest in exploring the Holy Land. At least, I hope it is mere curiosity that prompts his plan to visit heathens. The Earl viewed this as a military campaign, which apparently displeases him. Despite being a thorough despiser of the Turks and any other non-English pagan, the prospect of needlessly spilt blood enrages the old man. This surprises me, the fervor with which he condemns the notion. Our teacher, in the splendor of his religious piety, was eager to raise a sword to the hated pagans. With sweating effort, he controlled his tongue, as employment is such a fickle endeavor.

In my friendship with Robin, there are moments when I wish for a more open forum for discussion. This is one of those times. Eager as I am to bring these rumors to his attention, to debate their likelihood in the same way we dissect the motives of girls, I dare not mention this. Not the least of my concern is the manner in which I obtained the information, although should Robin have been present, he'd have had his ear as firmly to the wall as myself. But it is his reaction to the content that worries me. He has lately spoken of the lackings of this land; the adventures undertaken within the manor's confines are now child's play. There is no test of skill, no chance to advance a reputation, no way to gain sufficient notoriety. I say that he could easily achieve that last one, though it may bring quite a beating.

The word 'glory' is not used but the implication is ever present. I've reproached him with the reminder that some of us would not hesitate to reside in his father's considerable shadow, a place where want and need have no foothold. That this is not enough for him shows a flaw in character that should be taken to the nearest alter and sacrificed. The eye rolls I get for such statements are substantial. It was so much simpler when he just wanted village songs written for him. Now he wants glorious hymns.

I am not a coward. A cautious life observer, perhaps. A careful participant, yes. But I lack no bravery. I once dove into a heavily populated hog's pen to save a girl's life. Alright, it was the girl's shoe. But without it, she would have been required to limp home, which may have hurt her delicate foot. Gangrene could have set in after an innocent injury on the road and a leg might have been lost. So in the end, a life was indeed saved. Who would marry a one-legged woman? Clearly then, cowardice is not my natural inclination. But fear? Fear is the motivator of the very pulse within me. And there's nothing wrong with that. Except that yesterday's fear has melted into today's panic.

The issue is thus; should master Robin decide to seek glory in the inhospitable Holy Land, his manservant will be expected to journey with him. Even on the hasty battle field, a nobleman can hardly be asked to strap on his own armor. Should that servant refuse he can anticipate death by slow starvation, as he'll never work again. No one wants to employ someone neglectful in loyalty. But neither will anyone find work for a dead man, which will be my condition if I leave Robin's side. His father made that abundantly clear 6 years ago when Robin escaped my oversight and remained misplaced for two days. That he got lost and subsequently fell asleep in the forest had little bearing on the responsibility placed upon my nearly decapitated head.

Yes, I would go to the Holy Land, but only should my shameless begging fail to sway the errant master. Our first day there would see my death of sheer fright at being caressed by heathen winds. God will not follow us to that forsaken place, of this I am certain.

I think it wise to begin a campaign of my own. After all, one can never begin too early in sincere effort to hold off impending death. I could show him that death is no sort of life. Or perhaps I can make the prospect of war indigestible. Robin has taken a fancy to the future Lady Fitzwater, which could be exploited. Encourage him to pursue Marian to the point where leaving her open to other suitors could become unpalatable. He does so hate to lose.

Plan number three involves improving my swordsmanship to give evidence that he is not as invincible as he believes. A great deal of work would be needed and the more I ponder it, the more I seek plan number four. There is always the opposite approach. Bow training is akin to redrawing the sky for me and this ineptness could be displayed during the next target practice. An accidental arrow with a mind of its own could wander into a relatively harmless location in my master. After all, they would not take an already wounded nobleman into the ranks, would they? He will be livid with me for any injury but if it keeps English air floating into our nostrils, I am willing to cost him a hand or leg. True, they don't regrow, but surely he wasn't going to use the limbs in a godly manner anyway.

And then, in the creases of my musings I catch his silhouette in the clearing, drawing his bow against the foe of a post-inhabiting grape. When the shot is made, there is brotherly pride eclipsing the planning of harm. Besides, I probably would commit the deed incorrectly and enjoy an arrow to my own foot instead.

My heart, in truth, could not bring it to pass. He is a friend, my only one in this life and likely the next. Regardless of the measure of reluctance, where he goes I shall follow. It is the course of my life to trail the course of his. Right through the emergent dusk.


	3. Chapter 3

_Silver-Shadowspark, this one's for you. Thanks to all who have stuck with this small series. Reviews are appreciated but in no way mandatory : )  
_

**Fables and the Emergent Dusk**

**Chapter Three**

We have arrived at manhood. And I know this because people keep trying to kill us.

It does not take long before arrows flying past your nose no longer cause flinching. Not that I've reached that point yet. Ducking is still the favored tactic for survival. The master watches where they land, more interested in predicting trajectory than avoiding impalement. Am I the only one among us with an inkling toward self-preservation? I no more want to die here than live here.

For a holy land, it smells ungodly. It's not that the inhabitants fear water. It's the water itself, I suspect. In these first few weeks, I have witnessed grown men fall to wavering knees in sickness. Few things destroy my appetite but the sight of battle-hardened soldiers groan from the afflictions of liquid. We have, unfortunately turned to rather heartier drinks, which consequently have me groaning as well. Master Robin was no expert at ale consumption, but he picked up the talent as quickly as the combat techniques the older fighters showed him. Whatever dream I had nurture during the dreadful sail to this place, whatever hallucination I cultivated of being seen as an equal on this frontier has been cast asunder by an innate inability to hold down a quarter cup of the native brew. At nineteen, I am practically old. But not too old to be spared juvenile humiliation as performed by overgrown bullies.

A thunderstorm delayed our arrival here and a sandstorm greeted us. Is there no end to the ominous signs? They told me plainly to go home even as Robin ordered me to walk faster inland. Always in a rush, hurrying to the next spot of danger as though we have come on a sightseeing mission. The natives, on the whole, are nice enough for people speaking in tongue-breaking syllables. But I keep them before me at all times. I may hold a sword with obvious futility, but I have found a rock lobbed at the head is a fine deterrent to confrontation. One must use their available tools to every advantage, no matter how many giggles one hears from hidden children. What do they know?

A similar questioning of the span of youthful understanding had been undertaken by the Earl. The phrase 'No son of mine' had begun a great many of the old man's sentences before we departed England's safe shores. No son of his shall leave the estate, no son of his shall fight a savage foe, no son of his shall follow a King ordained for failure. And no son of his shall be welcomed back. And if a single one of his statements had been heeded, we would not be sitting in the middle of an endless expanse of colossal nothingness, shaking persistent sand from every bodily inch.

Another phrase swiftly coming to mind is, 'No man shall live on bread alone.' The good Lord must have had this particular bread in mind when he declared that. Less like a grain and more like chunks of a boulder, the flour in this land is a most fearsome substance, undeserving of the designation 'bread.' The loaf presently arguing with my teeth was baked, I suspect, before my birth. And of course, washing it down with local water, as previously noted, is hardly a safe option. I am forced to decide upon a death of starvation or water poisoning. Robin tells me I am a rampant complainer and I must agree. Unfortunately, he's no ardent listener. Once, in a sudden suicidal fit, I tried to soften the bread by soaking it in the hated water. Perhaps the combination will make quick work of dispatching me to the Lord. But alas, the flour repels liquid like the stone from which it descends.

One small joy was that being of noble lineage secured my master no better quality of tent than I received. There was little camaraderie among the classes represented in our group, the sole matter of import being how many heathens have been returned to dust by one's hand. Being new to the fray, Robin and I were shunned with no regard to position back home. I expected as much but my master seemed a bit perturbed by the rejection. I quite liked being invisible to both our foes and our countrymen, my logic working out that being seen equated to being stabbed, shot or strangled. Robin failed to put faith in such arithmetic, still an enemy to sums of any shape. And against all reason, his version of mathematics was winning. His was a reputation growing in approval.

I blame the first man he killed. Poor sod must have drawn the short end when he snuck into camp one night, a wretchedly thin fellow draped in rags. When caught, the man fell with precision to his knees and uttered what appeared to be prayers to the Heavens. Without translation, it was clear he was beseeching for his life. Like a good Christian, I stepped forward in hopes of making an impression of compassion, something that should be held as virtuous. Having just encouraged the lads to let the man have the rotten bread he was clinging to, I watched as the bread was dropped to free both hands, which produced daggers from under the deceptive garments. One flew, then the other, both embedding themselves into the two soldiers before him. Leaping up to run in the resulting confusion, the man was brought down by one of his own knives driving into his back. Without turning, I knew from which hand such precision emerged.

That night has not been discussed, nor any other death that followed in its wake. It is true, what they say; butchery gets easier with practice. And that sentiment is no longer reserved for meat sellers. Holding my tongue grows difficult as I see the violence around me escalate. Robin is quicker now, bolder in his actions. Ending life has become a daily fixture for all of the men, their armor no longer able to hold any trace of clean. As for myself, I eat my bread in silence and gorge on contaminated water, knowing what the pairing does to my insides is nothing compared to what this war will do if we remain. Yet remain we shall.

It took several months, but Robin's much-sought reputation has us moving to a new camp. This group will not be missed; their drinking nearly epic and their worn stories never changing. Within days, we shall arrive at the holdings of the King himself. For all the honor I should be experiencing at being in Richard's presence, for all the bragging rights I might be going home with, I can only grouse that he is the reason I am wiping stinging foreign dust from my eyes. Eyes that haven't beheld grass in ages. Eyes that impassively watch blood flow from the bodies of strangers. Eyes that look hard at fellow servants as their faces are the last thing covered over in their sandy graves. These eyes are tired.

The King is pleased with master Robin, promoting him to the ranks of personal guard. But who shall guard us from the dirtying of our souls, the sullying of righteousness for the sake of the King's crusade? Who can turn these nineteen year old elders back into innocents?

Dusk, once a harbinger of blessed night, now brings with it an unsettling sensation. Each night as the sun disappears to reveal constellations in a sky with which I don't wish to become familiar, I wish for a shred of hope that I will soon recline in my own bed. And not due to some mortal injury inflicted by a raggedly dressed foreigner during a bread theft. But the rational side knows when I wake tomorrow, the same sights and smells will greet me. Nothing shall change. Except Robin and I.

We are changing into men in a way neither had imagined. My master's eyes, bygone liveliness a part of the child he no longer resembles, tell me this isn't what he expected, but he is not retreating. Robin will see this through, rather than return to his father with no glory achieved. But surely glory is best appreciated above ground. And when the next impromptu burial arrives, I look not at the face of the soldier, granting not my eyes that final image of death. But it matters not, as my mind only replaces the man's face with my own.

There are evil dreams at nightfall. And these are the stories I will not pass down, should I live through this. Given the chance, I will tear out that post in the clearing, for I have assigned responsibility to it for encouraging him in his skill. And that weapons instructor will be reduced to a sobbing heap when I am through with him. But I shall bless his father for his effort to keep us from this nightmare. No son of his indeed. I dare say neither of us shall be recognized.

Robin often wanders under the Jerusalem darkness. He confessed nights ago that he was looking for the face of his angel. It is doubtful he realizes how his departure and prolonged absence may affect his expected bride. Marian was not actually factored into his plan before we left, Robin still very much a boy rebelling against responsibility. She was not consulted. She was barely told. But she'll wait for him, he believes. And not for the first time, I call him foolish. Destiny, he thinks, will sort it all out later. The grass will be green, the village will be fine and Marian will wait. As hard as I squint, I can not pry the image of Lady Fitzwater from the tiny stars above, but when I see the smallest grin taxing his lips, I know he has found her.

I also know the deaths at his hand are claiming a toll; their ghostly footprints stamp across his features like tracks in the muddy shallows. I wonder when he shall be made to pay for willing away purity for the hope of a fable.


	4. Chapter 4

_This little addition goes out to my old buddy Hoodie622. I sincerely thank everyone for sticking with the progression of this thought. _

**Fables and the Emergent Dusk**

**Chapter Four**

In moments of trial or indecision, I have been known to be a praying man. Nothing causes my knees to fold into an immediate petition position like panic. Belief in God I have plenty of. Belief in the likelihood that I, a humble yet capable servant, might be heard by a glorious, munificent deity is often difficult. I can barely get master Robin's attention without shouting. Therefore, why would His Most Heavenly bend a divine ear to my cries for safety and a satisfying bite? While I may be sparing with supplications that do not involve food, I have given great thought to His many interesting gifts. Toes for one. Baldness for another.

One of the more complicated endowments the Good Lord has granted his frail human creation is companionship. As evidenced by a cursory scan through the camp parson's scriptures, there seems no direct instruction on the workings of friendship. Women, as a whole, seem blessed with an innate proclivity for camaraderie, swarming into bonded flocks and migrating on collective whims. But men, our callowness riding our souls like dust on boots, follow our natural tendency to do the gift a disservice by adding exponentially to the existing intricacies. We do so enjoy a challenge. Based on 20 years of earthly life, I've decided the most complex facet within the gem of friendship is the art of conversation.

Conversing requires more than a mere grasp of language. A study of face, body and character is needed for the deepest extraction of truth among male-perfected fabrications. I've developed a sharp eye and sharper knife's edge to slice through my master's creative versions of fact. Applied to the study, I have documented each look that he thinks foolproof and can detect every syllable forged in dishonesty. What he doesn't know is that his voice takes on a strained quality when he lies, as if he hates to partake in the trade but cannot resist the fib.

Along with his alterations of reality, Robin has the ability to dig trenches in his memory. Deep, gaping ditches that swallow cattle whole. Truly, the master was born with a spade in his figurative hand for the task. There are days I ache to reach into his mind, take hold of the shovel and beat him with it. The first part of this trip has been overwrought with such days. And yet, when we sit in companionable silence or whispers of reminiscence, he is my brother once more.

Having grown up together, we understand one another nearly wordlessly at times. Silent communication such as ours is the envy of the other members of camp and many a time have I heard grumblings about our 'sharing of one brain.' I take such complaints as proof of jealousy. Still, we are at our best when we speak freely. In the passage of years, the subject matter of lengthy talks has improved from rules of play and fancy to battle strategies and wounds. However, petty arguments and infantile jesting feature frequently into our conversations, mostly on the master's part. Apparently, this tendency is perplexing to our fellow soldiers, as their wide eyes and shaking heads display confusion as to how two grown men can bicker while thrusting swords into foes. As the servant, it is always my assumed task to prepare breakfast, but that in no way means I won't find reason to argue over the chore. I dare not explain that it is a convenient way to mask the frightening violence of our actions in the comfort of familiar habits. Surely, had we been chopping wood rather than heads, we'd be having the same fight over his laziness or my appetite.

Our initial few weeks here brought the first significant challenge to our friendship. What began as a dinner debate burned through our politeness and left a charred skeleton of exposed truth. In a customary burst of anger, Robin had accused me of not understanding our purpose in this barren death-land. My only response had been a reminder that my duties do not change with our location and I could not have served him from the shores of England. Despite an intense desire to attempt it. My arms, I had muttered through a mouthful of bread rubble, could not reach across the ocean to fasten his armor. Robin's answer was an overturned makeshift tray, sending his meal sailing and attracting the attention of already disgruntled eyes. Did I not feel no compulsion to improve as a man, he asked.

Certainly no man was ever improved by running from responsibility and abandoning one's future bride. In reward for sharing this view, I had received the same cold stare Robin had fixed upon his father the day we left. That glare formed the full content of their goodbye.

However, our early disagreements on this trip's rationale have lost potency. With no preamble, we have begun to slide into a more common view. This slow melding into one accord came from the tongue of the King. To hear him speak is to have the words of Moses rendered from page to life. The red sea of our anger parted as Richard's enthusiasm for his mission stirred my pessimistic heart into concurrence with his confident direction. So many souls to save, so many proper English benefits to bestow on the deprived. God's work done by mortal hands. If the old Earl could only hear this regal discourse, he would dust off his military regalia and march across the sand himself. I suppose when one is subjected to majestic logic, one's throat swallows the 'death water' as eagerly as wine.

Actual wine is a rarity that only his majesty's high manservant could have procured. That he did so for me brought a recently foreign pride with that first slightly bitter sip. It should thrill me that on this day, I am of an age that no longer starts with a one. How few years have passed since I clambered upon the long boughs of elm to gaze across the grassy planes of home. Now I sit among warriors in the presence of the King on a near-equal footing with my master and holding a cup of fine wine in the middle of a crusade for God.

But for reasons I cannot fathom, I am not yet convinced of my adulthood. A baby's prerogative is to startle at unidentified sounds. A child's privilege is to cower at creaks and howls. Three weeks eclipsed before the occasional scraping noise that kept my eyes darting in the dark was pinpointed as the consequence of belted swords rubbing on stiff blankets. Learning the culprit was restless men rolling over in their sleep secured my private place as the infant of the infantry. Serving by day, sniveling by night. This is one issue I cannot speak of to the master, who has transitioned into a man far more convincingly. Suffering a lifelong supreme confidence, Robin has no doubt as to his place, duty and capabilities. His is the sleep of the assured. I suspect those dreams involve savoring the reputation with which he will sail home, a champion greeted by a village brimming with proud maidens. Greeted by his bride. Robin wakes each dawn with a smile.

I dream of soft bread. And wake with nausea.


	5. Chapter 5

**Fables and the Emergent Dusk**

**Chapter Five**

The constellations alone bear witness to the close combat stirring ripples of dust under the dim glow of starlight. Two combatants swing pole axes in impressive arcs, both striking from below, then above. The maneuver binds the axes together but the fighter on the right quickly disengages. He lacks the height of his opponent, but manages to reverse his weapon and trap the enemy about the neck with the shaft. From the wrenched position, the small man steps forward to seize the opponent's neck with a determined hand and in a swift move, throws him over his hip. The back point of the axe is brought to rest under the fallen man's chin. Before the final blow is wrought, the scene is flooded with light.

I was winning at something, miraculous feat that it is, Oh, the fables they shall write of my exploits; the unassuming manservant slaying the hordes. But the sun has no stomach for my victory. It wakes me from this most glorious dream to remind me of the nightmare that is life in the Holy Land. The only opponent to suffer my wrath is a ripped blanket, now tangled at my feet. In the first few moments of the day, I am already defeated.

Looking outside the makeshift tent, I find most of the soldiers are gone and with them any chance of breakfast. Camp must be broken and moved for safety. Busy-work if you ask me. Surely the King's majestic plan could have included morning sustenance. Were I charged by God with this undertaking, a mandatory buffet would have been written into the manifest. Well-fed is well-armed, I believe. I watch other servants scurrying to aid the few soldiers that remain in camp. The departed ones must have started out obscenely early; those of highest skill I notice. A night raid is the likely culprit and I wonder when I began to sleep as the dead. It is hardly unusual for Robin to disappear without me; adult renditions of hide and seek have become a disturbing pastime. A game of necessity, one might say. The knowledge that my master always returns, tired, filthy and often exuberant, tames the mother-hen hysterics I have perfected.

New worries are quick to replace old ones in this place. Fears about these savages are renewed with each visit to what passes for a market. For months we have been camped too far from civilization but now, in closer quarters to those we oppose, I wish for that distance again. In recent days, Robin has taken to wandering off to the local village and I can only guess that a woman in town has caught his eye. I see not the attraction of dodging noisy, grabbing children to get to sellers hawking inedible food; the over-spiced, putrid scent alone could set a mind to swim back home. Astoundingly, Robin finds pleasure in mingling with this strange culture and even stomachs fish and vegetable samples from the stalls. Hunger is not my preferred state, but they may well poison the bites given to pale foreigners.

It occurs to me that the sun selects days when it fails to move, stuck in position overhead to mock my feeble engagements in no particular task whatsoever. I am drenched in perspiration and wasting time. The dust, kicked up by a foul wind, is brushed from our possessions at regular intervals. Other fruitless activities include rearranging the tent for optimal space and making lists of all the foods I miss. And that list approaches the epic, a Herculean document with all the detail of a royal decree. Initially, I thought only of breads and meats I associate with home. I have since progressed to visualizing meal preparation, seasonings and dinnerware on which to serve the feast. Imaginary hands knead and slice with the efficiency shown my dream enemy last night. Of course, this only intensifies the hunger pangs and shortly the sight of pork, potatoes and pies will comprise my hallucinations. If the visions came with scent, there might be satisfaction in my insanity.

Night, a beast of ignorance, arrives unrequested, the darkening halts any chores requiring more than firelight. To secure our forgiveness for falling, twilight brings with it a blessedly crisp breeze, cutting the heat and scurrying the insect masses. Though the winds return the oft-fought sand upon every surface, my cooled skin harbors no complaint. The same winds blow Robin back to us as well. He is tired, he is filthy, but exuberance was left on the field of battle. I tend a deep but mild wound on his shoulder and my chastisement is venom spit at him for letting a blade that close to his neck. Carelessness will not get us home in a condition equal to that of our arrival. Next time, I warn in mutters, I'll slit his throat myself. Hazy eyes return a silent response; whether born of unconcern or wishful thinking I will not ponder.

I am changing in this land, though my growth is certainly not in weight. Through mutual starvation and utter boredom, those who prepare the camp for the daily exercise of war have melded into something of a community. I, as the servant of a noble, was ordained the most fit to speak for the group. Not that I know what this conscription into leadership entails exactly nor can I suppose what words I will be asked to say. Something tells me mine is the role of sacrificial lamb. Should a mutiny transpire, I expect to be the first to hang. Still, recognition of any kind springs forth a well of pride that tilts my head just a bit skyward as I walk through camp. Combat skills I have not and the King seeks not my council, but I am the most qualified at something. I have purpose besides armor strapping and tent maintenance. Twenty one years is a dreadfully long time to nurture feelings of inadequacy and thus I find this war ever more palatable. It has occasioned a new acceptance of myself.

Even as I begin to find value in our calling here, Robin's attitude is shifting away from his King's staunch position. It is his nature really, to be contrary. But more than his rebellious inclinations, blame can be placed at the sandaled feet of these heathens. They have become… interesting to Robin. My eyes water upon the sight of them, their defamation of this sacred land with their strange customs setting my blood to boil. And Robin? He's talking to them. Well, talking to someone who then talks to them. A ridiculous means of communication, to be sure. In the nearby village I have spotted my master attempting to converse with a seller or even a child. Lacking sufficient vocabulary, hands are used more than words to convey an idea. Like a player at shadow puppets, he gestures and smiles and laughs at their mutual confusion. The appearance is a mockery of our home village and I am disgusted. We are not to know our enemy. What would be the point of war if we liked our foes? Surely the King did not intend his hardened soldiers to use friendliness as part of the arsenal. Know who we're fighting, Robin explains and I scoff. What's to know? Early on, I had hoped this was his way of getting into the enemy's head to better defeat them. But now…

Now I see the flaw inherent in this folly. They are becoming people and people are hard to kill. People have faces and families and dreams. But the heathens have sin and ignorance and a King-pronounced target upon their chests. When I draw a bow upon an intruder, I wish not to consider how the man envisioned spending his latter years. I cannot spare thought to the smiles of his babies waiting at home. My arrow will fly true with nary a concern for his mortal soul. Alright, yesterday's arrow sailed wide but obviously the wind caught it. I did not choose to miss out of sympathy for the man's kin. The King wants to save them by killing them. It only lacks sense when spoken aloud.

Yet again we find ourselves in the marketplace, a tiny strip breeding more bodies by the moment. When Robin points out to me why a thin man drops to his knees and touches his head to the dirt, I seethe. We should not know the reason they throw themselves to the ground. And why is there not a sword thrust through his prone body while the advantage is ours? I am scolded for wanting to murder someone in the midst of prayer. My retort is that prayer not sent to our God does not count.

And for the first time, Robin looks upon me in abject repulsion.

All forward progress is ceased as a hard gaze regards me as one would an inhuman traitor. In the span of a breath I have become as droppings on a boot. I can feel Robin literally shaking me from his heel. This from the man who dragged me out here to find glory in every act that defies peace. But because I do not swing with his changing moods, I am at fault. There seems no use in reminding him that their newly precious blood coats his hands. Continuing my walk past the heathen now rising to his feet, it takes every ounce of restraint to keep from kicking him. But I force spit from the dryness of my mouth and release it in his direction, knowing Robin has seen. I care not. Just when I feel a sense of that grand purpose he always carried on about, he questions the mission, his King and my morals. And as dusk pulls a blanket over the land yet again, I give up.

I will serve as my nature compels me. But he has lost his confidant. Let him seek company with the godless he's suddenly found so fascinating. The goal of finding my own glory supplants my efforts toward his wellbeing. When we return to England's shores, mine will be the stories that enrapture the village. My future bride will boast on my deeds while Robin will be remembered as one whose soft heart ran counter to his King's destiny.

The determination to separate myself from Robin lasts barely a day. News arrives from home and his eager face crumbles along with the paper in his hand.


	6. Chapter 6

_The saga continues. I would like to send a specific Thank You to all the Much fans for being so supportive of this ongoing work. _

**Fables and the Emergent Dusk**

**Chapter Six**

In the proud tradition of thoroughly doomed men, I panic.

Dreams are havens for tired minds, but they also lie. I have had grand visions of graceful fighting maneuvers, daydreams of triumphant swordplay. Never am I wounded. Never am I so much as disheveled. It is a strike to my pride that I am fundamentally clumsy. My opponent knows this after the first minute of the fight and begins to regard me as a bully would easy prey. Perhaps my frequent attempts to flee are to blame.

The camp lay in tatters with this unexpected raid, yelling and grunts the morning song that chased away the silence of dawn. Tents are overturned, weaponry is left unattended and blankets are as rolled rugs mocking my effort of departure. Each of our men is occupied with his own enemy, leaving me to fend rather incapably for myself. Worse odds have never been contemplated. I am the one that scurries off to safety with our more precious cargo, emerging unscathed once the fighting concludes. This is a task at which I excel. In truth, no more is usually expected of a servant, something of a blessing for the combat-challenged.

Master Robin has no doubt taken the lives of countless intruders while I throw things at this single man. I call the tactic 'distraction.' Pointless, really, since the heaviest object I've laid hands on is a large mixing bowl. Filled with food, naturally, which I have now sent to the dust. Yet another day without breakfast. He drives me to the ground with his swift forward paces. But he does not strike.

It occurs to me that my opponent is enjoying the game. Only a godless sadist would find such giddy joy in teasing a man before his end is dealt. I count no less than forty chances to detach my limbs and stop my pulse. Chance forty-one will not be missed. He raises an ornate sword above his head, a beast anticipating the consumption of his kill. But someone behind me catches his attention; a more worthy adversary I pray. The string of foreign words sail over my head, both in meaning and sound as my arms are wrapped tight over my head. I thought he might strike the death blow on the way past, but the new target has rendered me invisible. I have never been so relieved to be ignored. It does not last.

A peasant had been standing behind the trained soldier, watching the struggle as one might a play. Loose clothes billow in the early breeze as he considers me, his head wrapping coming undone at the bottom. This is not a man eager to fight, but has obviously engaged in the day's activity. Though we are of equal height, I have no delusions of a fair fight. A cut above his eye draws my attention away from the bread in his hand. A fly has landed at the wound and something approaching pity wells up slowly. After all, he bears the markings of a servant like myself. I want to tell him that the similarly employed mustn't quibble. When he speaks a scant few unintelligible syllables in my direction, the voice comes to my ears in a soft wave. Gentile, almost soothing, like a well-intentioned apology. Sorry for the mess, perhaps? His left hand reaches behind a long fold in his robe, producing a rusty short sword. Apology not accepted.

In a perfect side arc, he swings the sword to the far left, just behind his left shoulder. Both hands grip the hilt with the intention of forcing my head to depart from my neck. Clearly he has no consideration for how much better my brain works when still attached to my body. Reaching back for yet another household item to toss, my hand finds the tip of a sword. Daring to tear my gaze from the heathen, I look back to find the sword in the loose hold of a downed soldier. Though respectful of the dead, I wrench the weapon from his grasp by the blade, slicing my palms in the process. I try to right it but stinging pain shoots up my forearms, preventing me from turning the sword completely. My opponent halts fractionally, then resumes his swing.

Following the lead of my panicked mind, my tired body reacts. I hit him in the face with the pommel. And God be praised, this is no ordinary pommel. The soldier from whom I appropriated the weapon was of a good class and had the decency to bring a heavy sword across the ocean. The pommel is rounded into a significant ball, as the fallen man can attest. The reddest blood I've ever seen escapes like tears to run down his damaged cheek. Clutching his broken nose, my enemy makes an attempt to strike at my calves from his kneeling position. Jumping away from the shaking blade, I turn my own in my grip and drive it through his chest.

Staggering back, the battle around me has faded as the sole focus is this appalling display of my handiwork. A man collapsing into himself yet strangely remaining upright despite the sword's downward angle into his belly. The sickening sway of his spine increases the flow of blood from the wound. And the sword's pommel ball moves in tiny circles as the man continues his weaving until a wind gust finally blows over this death sculpture. I have killed my first man.

Never again.

Sitting at the campfire that night, my face takes on the hollow look Robin has been wearing. We have completed the familiar task of burying our dead and now we feast. Each time there are less mouths, the food portions grow; a twisted gratitude has always been harbored in me for this. Not tonight. This night is for reevaluating who I must be. Heroes, the men brag of themselves for the slaying done for God's name. The title of murderer does not quite fit any of us, but I wonder. When we stand before the Judgment Seat, will the Lord weigh our motives against our deeds? Even that thought carries no consolation, for I recognize the purpose of the kill was saving my own skin. And I recall that vow to make a name for myself separate from my Master. He'd lost the taste for war and I dismissed him for it. In my heart of hearts, I thought him a traitor to his King and country for sympathizing with the people of this land. It took only one death at my hands for me to reach the same plateau he now occupies. In the privacy of our tent, I confess this. All of it. Robin does not judge me harshly for the stumble.

It takes two further nights before sleep is achieved. And once accomplished, I am sorry for it. The man's bruised and distorted face floats before me, bodiless and taunting. His eyes are open, registering the cessation of heartbeat with a stark glance at me. He is pleading in screams that bear no sound, wordlessly begging for life that I hold at the end of a borrowed sword. I can not stand the gaze. Eyes telling me of his wife, children and dreams for his future; all the things I swore not to see in the face of these foreigners. I feel myself jump up in bed and realize my hands are gripping an invisible sword, readying for another blow to close those eyes.

It sickens me that I would chose murder again over personal condemnation.

I spend the rest of the night planning how I might build a ship seaworthy enough to carry us both home. A mental inventory of our assets shows a lacking of essentials but it does not stop my mind from plotting. I must wash clean in the waters of England, rinse this blood from my skin. Robin must see to the estate and claim his birthright. There are women to wed and babies to conceive. We must return to our lives and live them, before death becomes the only breath in our lungs.

The sharp breath next to me declares my master fares no better against the plagues of the mind. In the rasp of startled confusion, he whispers to me the content of his own dream. A vision placed us on a ship, this dusty land planted on a fading horizon behind us.


	7. Chapter 7

**Fables and the Emergent Dusk**

**Chapter Seven**

In my mind I am a boy of seven, seated nervously on a broken chair beside the makeshift bed of a maternal grandmother for whom I had no particular fondness. Born old and aging scornfully, she was best recalled as a foe to pleasure. The only time I'd ever heard her laughter was at someone's misfortune. Words of comfort in those final days were unwelcome but she never dismissed me from her company. The air, I remember, draped as a mantle upon me with a heavy staleness that no amount of open windows could cure. Her violent coughs jarred me as much as herself and I expected each one to finish her. No one else visited the barely breathing corpse of a woman filled of days and misery. Speech had eluded her but words were unnecessary; the eyes were a thousand curses. At first I thought it was fear of dying that lit the fury but when that last moment arrived, it was greeted like an errant lover. Apparently, it was death's delay that had vexed her and knowing this allowed me to run from that stinking dark room in unshamed relief.

In a nearly sacred vow I had sworn off deathbed vigils. Thus I find the resumption of this aching posture most inconvenient. My backside even misses the unsteady chair of my youth. Surely we do not know the luxury of proper furnishings in our cramped tent. Yesterday I ventured into the tents of recently deceased soldiers to collect abandoned bed coverings. Most everything else had already been stripped and was being bartered for better rations or trinkets among the remaining men. Atop one half of the pilfered blankets lay my master, the rest piled upon him in accordance to the most baffling medical order ever uttered by a physician. Keep the sweating man warm, he tells me while a desert-full of hot air swirls beneath his ridiculous cape. And I think perhaps I chose the wrong profession, for surely I could kill patients as effortlessly as this cretin. The king's best, indeed. The sandy ground was the safest place for Robin as he alternates between frightening stillness and uncontrollable thrashing. I know not which I prefer. With a chorus of protest from my knees, I squat beside him, having no other mission than to silently encourage the continuance of his breathing. As with any good servant, I am steadfast beside him and equally beside myself.

Shall I admit to being furious with Robin? His whole life has been a preparation for war, thus the notion of defeat comes slow and stumbling to my brain. I would not be fighting to watch him die through a persistent veil of insufferable flies had he studied numbers as his father demanded. No one had ever succumbed to an infection of mathematics. What weapon is unpracticed by his hand? What tactic can he not outwit before breakfast? As I sit on foreign soil with the unorganized sounds of battle clean up behind me, I fail to fathom what manner of man could have inflicted the wound that has spun my master into a web of pain and fever. The men speculate that Robin was felled by some ghostly creature brandishing the devil's sword, birthed of the spit of heathens below the shifting sands. When not engaged in bloodshed, soldiers become dreadfully bored and this causes a regression into childishness. While I cannot abide by such foolish stories, neither can I dismiss the spirit of the rumor. This land is wrought with perils not often seen this side of Hell's gate. Robin's attacker was one of them; a filthy pagan assassin in the service of darkness. Make no mistake, I have endeavored not to condemn these people for a war I suppose they did not seek. But every incident renews my innermost revulsion. It has become a stretch to even call the land Holy, for the very soil seems a demon unworthy of God's hand.

It is not a practice of mine to speak to one so thoroughly incapacitated. Too little satisfaction is derived from detailing the happenings of a camp thriving on disarray when the hearer cannot express interest. Talking to the dying is like explaining sewing to a chicken. Which only reminds me of eggs. And ham. And milk. And depression has returned. A counter attack, over which Robin would despair, is being planned for the market square. Civilians, the master likes to remind me, are innocents and make unforgivable targets. Still, all too aware am I that Robin's attention to the place has narrowed from culture admiration in general to one lady in specific. Not that I believe him to have lapsed into improper dalliances with her but from the renewed stares of the protective sellers, there is at least suspicion of impropriety. Asking him to be careful is like requesting that he detach an arm.

The sun makes its excuses and leaves me to conduct my vigil in shadows. And I recall that I was wrong. An aunt used to visit my grandmother of an evening, opening rusty spinster lungs to sing the old woman into a fit. Such a voice should be granted only to a deaf audience. But against all evidence, she insisted the tunes soothed the dying process. I often thought it one of Grandmother's strongest reasons for forsaking life. It is far more peaceful in the ground where the worms never bother to sing. I have therefore refrained from subjecting the ailing man before me to renditions of war songs or romantics. Which is a shame because I've been told my voice is one of interesting qualities. One of the new lads, fresh of face and clean of clothing, peeked in earlier to offer his talents. On the chance that it would summon images of a eulogies and processions, I politely declined. But this continued silence has rendered this tent a tomb. I must speak and so I do. I tell him not to join his father, as the old man would not enjoy his company. I tell him there is an untapped host of ladies yet to be favored by his charms. I tell him that I have not the strength to deliver news of his death to Marian.

And he speaks her name.

At first the whisper is a partial repetition of a syllable. But when he says it again, the parched speech is clear and purposeful; he is calling for her. And it is my regret that she is not here to answer, for I am no sort of substitute. A rag is used against the moisture of his brow and with every swipe of dirty cloth, I apologize that I was not there to stop the attacker, no matter how improbable my success. After all, what good is tossing objects at Satan? The memory of my solitary kill has kept a sword from my grasp since the day I watched blood rip from a mortal wound of my making. Still, the urge is present in the center of my gut to find the monster and deal with him as war dictates. But no, I shall leave revenge to the armies of Heaven, concentrating instead on keeping Robin from being ushered to the angels. God cannot have him yet because to die is to be full of days and misery and far from both is he. Although I myself have half of the criteria met already. For I know how the world will dim with his passing. But I also know what happens should he live; a return to his post to die another day in the name of king and country and glory and fables. The cycle of war begins anew with each traitorous dawn, which has made me a greater ally to dusk.

A night that lasts three passes us, the hush that gives the morning insects their say. They are not the only ones to speak. A messenger left the king's presence to join us where the smell of death floats a little lighter than before. He tells us that his majesty's decree is as scripture itself and must be obeyed. We are to break camp immediately and for once I cannot complain about the upheaval. A newly coherent Robin merely blinks as I speak the word; Home.

* * *

_Many thanks to all who have given up precious time to consistently venture into this little world of mine. I hope you have not found it wasted. Special thanks to Dina C for her recent reviews!_


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